Who needs to go to the Peten? I've got jungle in my backyard

Important Peace Corps lesson #1 (or maybe #44331 at this point): you never know when you will be surprised with a really cool experience.

This morning I had agreed to go out to one of the communities where we work to take pictures of their water system for a grant we are helping them complete. This community has only 20 families, and they built their own gravity fed water system out of small PVC tubing and barbed wire. The terrain is mountainous, and in various places, they had explained to us, the tubing was strung across ravines. This manner of construction left the tubes vulnerable to both the natural elements and water thieves who drill holes in the PVC to steal the community’s water. An engineer we are working with on a project in the school wants to replace these parts with sturdier metal tubing.

I arrived at the community with Juan, my trusted taxi driver and friend (there is no transportation to this community and its too far to walk), and expected to see a few tubes and be done in an hour or less. We started off through the few houses that make up the village, through the cornfields, now grown up tall around the houses, and headed into the woods. The woods there look a lot like Florida woods, and the air is clear and crisp. It is beautiful, and I was loving it. Two “bridges,” or sections of tubes spanning ravines, later I was feeling good. So when they told me that from there on the terrain got worse and that they weren’t sure if we should go on, I insisted that I needed the photos and measurements, and we pressed on. We passed through a lush river canon and started to climb. An hour and a half and 5 “bridges” later found me feeling like a novice Avatar on Pandora. I tried to act cool, but there were a few times where my life flashed before my eyes as I pictured myself tumbling down a cliff. “Throw yourself uphill,” advised the wise village mayor. I felt even more foolish when I found out one of our guides had a fractured knee (or something like that, they were all speaking Kaqchikel and Juan wasn’t helping much to translate). I decided it was time to turn around while I still could. At this point, hiked almost 2 hours into the mountains, they informed me that we had only reached the middle of the water system and had covered the most manageable terrain. I am still flabbergasted that this tiny community built and maintains such an extensive and vulnerable water system, and that they were able to engineer a gravity fed system over kilometers and kilometers of mountains.

At one point while we were hiking, a helicopter passed overhead, and Juan made a joke that we were guerillas hiding in the forest from the army. Later I got a chance to talk to the community leaders about the “violence” as they call it, and found out that 7 members of their community were disappeared during that time. Many more left the community and moved into the municipality, where it was safer. In those times, they told me, one couldn’t wander around the mountain like we did today with out the fear of being found and killed by either the army or the guerillas. It’s interesting to note that in many history books and in many circles here in Guatemala these years are referred to as “The Civil War.” Indeed they were ended in 1996 with Peace Accords, as if these years comprised a legitimate war. But here in this community that lived only the violence and sided neither with the guerilla or army, their name for the time period describes their experience. In college I took a class on periods of state violence in Latin America and read multiple books about how Guatemala spent the better part of second half of the 20th century, but being there in that forest and talking to people who can claim that as part of their life and history is an inexplicably different experience.

I arrived home exhausted, full of soda and imitation cheese puffs that we had been served after the hike (the things I do for confianza), but grateful for such an incredible morning. After lunch I headed off to teach English, which is not always my favorite activity even on days when I haven’t been dragged all over the mountains. Last week we learned how to make words plural. So today while reviewing pronouns, 7 year old Wesley solemnly informed me that if “They” were plural, it would be “Theies,” and I was reminded of another Peace Corps lesson: it’s the small victories that count.

Día de los Muertos

This is the first year that I can remember that I haven’t dressed up for Halloween. I am really not sure what my parents did when I was a baby, but that can’t really count. It was strange how un-strange it was. Here in Guatemala we celebrate Día de los Muertos instead of Halloween, and I think I greatly preferred it, minus missing all of the post-halloween-on-sale-candy.

For Día de los Muertos families decorate and visit the tombs of their loved ones, and their own future tombs. My host siblings, who are 7 and 9, already have their own designated tomb space. I believe that wealthier families may build tombs for their children as soon as they are born, which is a strange concept for me- to be so conscious of and prepared for the inevitability of death. This tradition also reflects the importance of family and home in the culture here. Families are all buried together in their hometown; not as many people leave the towns they were born in, and even if they do, the town remains a center for ritual and family. Because of all who return to Patzún for this special day, the town was especially full. At night we went down to the cemetery, where Laura’s host family sells food and hung out in the festival-like atmosphere with the rest of the town.

Another important part of October and November and celebrating Day of the Dead is kite flying. This has to be the best way ever to celebrate a holiday. Better than a bunny, better than lots of presents, and better than green beverages. Tissue paper kites can either be made or cheaply bought, and the whole month leading up to Day of the Dead kids can be seen on the roofs of their houses flying their kites. I tried my hand at kite making with our girls group, and it was a lot harder than it looked (mine came out a bit crooked). All of the boys and some of the girls know the special sticks that are needed, how to measure and build the frame with these sticks and thread, and are more creative in decorating their kites than I have seen them in any other endeavor. I went out kite flying Saturday, Sunday, and Tuesday. I am addicted.

The kids from our world map project all made kites representing different countries that they chose and researched. I hopefully will be able to post some pics soon. They are very impressive. Almost as impressive as the kites that I saw at the kite festival in Sumpango, my training town.

Sumpango is nationally and internationally famous for the giant kites that are made and flown there for Nov. 1st. I had been looking forward to going to see them since training in January, and I was not disappointed. The kites were up to 25 or 30 meters tall and showed elaborate and beautiful designs made out of tissue paper. They are built on huge bamboo frames, and displayed all day for locals and tourists. Then come the attempts to fly them. Before we had to leave we saw maybe 6 or 7 of the smaller kites (my height) try to leave the ground. When one would start to rise everyone would scream and cheer, but most would quickly nose dive, causing a lot more screaming, and a lot of running to get out of the way. As fun as it was to see one of the kites rise way up into the sky and stay there, the crashes were pretty fun too. We left at 3:30 and all of the bigger kites still had to be flown, so I still have no sure answer on whether the huge ones can actually fly or not, but I bet those crashes are a lot more dangerous. Some of the huge kites fell over and were destroyed before they even got a chance to try to fly. Seeing as how it can take 3 months to build these kites, that has to be a disappointment.

I wish I had more information about where this tradition came from. I have heard that the kites come from the influence of Chinese immigrants. Where ever they come from, they fit the holiday perfectly, as November is a time of year with little rain and lots of wind. Since this wind isn’t used for sailing, I guess kites are the next best thing.

Small town life

Its apple season, so I have been making applesauce with the same fervor that I made jam in blackberry season and mango curry in mango season. When I was younger I remember my mom making applesauce late at night. I don’t know why at that hour, but apparently I have inherited this habit.

I am hoping that my gas has been going so quickly because of the leak the gas-man found and not because of my proclivity for cooking foods that simmer for a while. With his frequent visits the man that brings me new tanks of gas and I have somewhat become friends. He greets me on the street as he pedals by on his bike with a propane tank strapped to the back. One thing that I like about living in a small town is the personal relationships I have with service providers that I interact with on a regular basis.

Every Saturday night I go down to the market to buy cheese from my cheese man. My banana lady talks to me in Kaqchikel as if I understood more than “how much are your bananas?” My butcher brought me a whole cow head that he stored for a week in his fridge at home for me when I asked him for cow’s teeth for a school project. The (only) mailman called me at 7:30 am on a Saturday (a day when the post office is closed) to tell me I had a package and could come get it. My baker is my host aunt who gives me free bread and lets me bake in her bakery oven. I feel like I have gone back in time to before automatic checkout lanes at the grocery store.

There is, of course, a drawback. If the cheese man doesn’t come because of storms, there is no cheese that week. If our taxi driver is out of town, we walk. But even though it might be nearly impossible to find the post office open, I think I am starting to appreciate the benefits of a one-man mail system and other small town charms.

15K, Guatemala style

After a bit of a blogging hiatus I am not sure anyone is still reading this (not even my mom), but now that my computer has recovered from a disastrous run-in with chai tea, I thought I'd get back to it. So enjoy if you are still out there reading.

One thing I never thought about when I was considering joining Peace Corps was how it would affect my fitness and ability to exercise. Working out (if that’s what you could call my minimal exercise routine) was a part of life that I took for granted and probably complained too much about in the US. I never really considered a situation where getting exercise would be difficult, until I started thinking about possible Peace Corps sites. What if it was too mountainous? No gym? I can’t run alone as a woman, what if I have no one to run with? Etc.

When site assignment came I got very lucky. I happened to be placed in a site where running is very popular, and I have site mates who also like to run. Our town even has its own annual 15k that the WHOLE town comes out to either watch or run. The race is the 19th of September, and some friends and I had been training for it with great anticipation.

When the big day came, we all met at my house to finish our shirts and go down to the buses together. True to Guatemalan style, we were late, but the problem with the hora chapin, is that you never know who is going to follow it and who is going to be on time. Apparently the women’s bus to the starting line 15K away was not on hora chapin. We missed it. The race organizers took pity on us and announced that the men (who were to start 15 min after the women) should let us get on their bus first. However when the bus passed us, it was full inside and out. I was not about to climb on top of an old school bus and risk my life for 15k just to run some race.

Luckily some guys from the Tigo phone company were headed in that direction and offered us a ride. About 15 of us piled into their suburban, and I ended up on Laura’s lap with my head out the sunroof. When we arrived at the start and unfolded ourselves from the car, we were all cramped and some a bit nauseous. Not the perfect start to a race, but we had no time to worry about it as we jogged to the starting line where the women were already lined up.

Now in my concept of a race start, all the runners start behind the line and wait for the gun to go off to start running. Apparently things are a little different here. The women kept inching forward and were not inclined to wait for the last bus of runners to arrive. So all of the sudden off we went. I am still not sure if there was any kind of countdown, but it was run or be trampled, so I ran. A minute later I heard what sounded like a herd of elephants behind me. Apparently the race officiators were no more successful in holding back the men than the women, and I was soon overtaken by a tidal wave of runners. The last bus never made it to the starting line, and the men on that bus just joined in a few km up the road. In fact, people joined in at all points, some even passed me as passengers on motorcycles and then got off a few km from the finish. The front-runners were monitored by a race committee, but for everyone else there seemed to be no rules or shame.

Along the route people handed out bags of water (yea that’s how we do it here) and fruit. Cars stopped on the side of the road and people came out of their house to cheer. Running through a community I work in, all the school kids came out and yelled “Lidia, Lidia!” which gave me just enough animo to walk briskly up the 2 km of straight-up mountain before reaching Patzún. Entering Patzún the streets were lined with people and it was fun to greet the people I knew. By the time I reached the finish-line formalities had been dispensed with, and there was a huge group of people obstructing the actual finish, so I had to weave my way to victory.

Upon proudly finishing my first 15K, my site mate, who has a wrist watch that measures distance (woah!) kindly informed me that it was really only 14.6 km. But this is Guatemala, what can you expect. Plus my t-shirt says 15K, and that’s good enough for me.

Independence Day Part II

I craftily got out of a third day of parades by agreeing to participate in Independence Day activities at one of our smaller schools. I love this school because it is very creative and reminds me a lot of my elementary school (this is very unusual for Guatemala). At the school we had a mini-parade through the 300-yard long main-drag of the aldea and I was very impressed with the kids costumes. The theme was “taking care of the environment” and kids were dressed as gorillas, whales, lions, chicks, chopped down trees, and a giant pineapple. I can’t believe I forgot my camera, but hopefully the teachers will pass me the picture of me in the giant pineapple costume.

All of the parents came to see the kids perform skits about drunks, lip syncs, and a dance by the 4th graders to “Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn,” I squirmed at the inappropriateness of the 4th graders’ choice of music, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed all the sexual innuendos in English. My talk on not throwing trash in the river and street fit in quite nicely with the program ;).

That evening, exhausted by such excitement, a huge lunch, and an never ending band-competition that the whole town came out to, I almost missed the piece-de-resistance of Independence Day. Everyone gathered at city hall to see yet another parade of students carrying flags, and sing yet again the national anthem, hymn of Central America, and song of Patzún. I was so proud of myself for knowing the first three words of the National Anthem and the whole song of Patzún that I almost didn’t notice the man atop the highest point of the highest tower of the Muni. But there he was, a soldier with no safety gear at all, holding the flag pole with one had and saluting the flag with the other, waiting to help lower the flag that they put up and take down once a year to celebrate the 15th. You’d think the architect would have thought of this minor snag in construction, but at least it made my night.

Independence Day Part I

My legs can’t take much more independence. 189 years of independence, three parades, and one 15k. And so far, I have only completed 2 parades. I’m skipping out of the next one so that my legs will still agree to carry me the 15k I have to complete next Sunday.

I have never heard of a country dedicating so much time and energy to celebrating Independence Day. Schools have been practicing for a month for the parades this week. Yesterday we walked in the pre-k parade. I was tired by the end; I have no idea how the pre-k kids stood up so long.

Today was primary school and Laura and I decided it would be a good idea to put on corte. We were invited to march alongside the school supervisor’s secretaries, as usual, but today they magically figured out who we were. So as we marched into the town square with hundreds and hundreds of people watching, they announced “And here come the North Americans who make up the healthy schools team! They look very pretty today dressed in traditional clothes from this town, etc., etc., etc.” The only good part of this public shaming was when they called us “Patzuneras.” Really all I wanted at that point was some water from one of the 14 year old “first aid workers” who had set up an outpost with camping tents.

Being a minor local celebrity does have its benefits however- unlike the students, we got to sit down during the ceremony. Still, the up and down required for all of the entrances and exits of more important figures and the 10 verses of the Guatemalan national anthem was quite the workout.